Well, the only iris in my garden, anyway. One of a handful of plants bought a few years ago, and which have never flowered. Until now. Most disappeared without trace; this one survived though, in a dark, shaded corner, and graced us with its long-bladed leaves. It added green structure, but no flowers arrived.
I was hanging some washing on the line when I noticed it. The dark purple buds had been there for some time, but I was unprepared for the silent presence of the flower and it caught me by surprise. Those blowsy sail-like petals; that rich, deep colour. What is it? Burgundy? Plum? Garnet? It depends on the light and photographs don’t quite do it justice.
The flower at the top is now starting to fade away, but there are, fortunately, some more buds left. The mystery of the moment, though, is what (or more ominously who) has removed one of the buds, snapping or biting it off cleanly, just as if it had been snipped with scissors. What would Agatha Christie have made of it?